


Clustering Around Sherlock

by sc010f



Category: James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up in a crowded hospital room and is infuriated to discover that there are people who <em>care</em> about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clustering Around Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the same universe as [The Man to Whom Nothing Ever Happened](http://sc010f.livejournal.com/331696.html), but all you really need to know is that John was once a Double-Oh agent and Mummy was (and still is) M.
> 
> So, neither Sherlock nor the James Bond 'verse are mine.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he couldn't understand why he was staring at a little figure seated in the bed with up and down arrows. He was also fairly certain that his feet were made of sand. 

"Voldemort!" he shouted.

"Ah, you're awake," Mummy's voice observed. Sherlock tried to turn his head, but he was immobilized.

Sherlock tried rotating his eyes instead, this time, he was able to see Mummy, sitting next to him, smiling. It was a chilling sight.

"Why're you here?" he demanded.

"What's that, lovey?"

Why was Mummy here?

"Why're you… here?" His ears and his brain caught up with one another as his mother reached out to brush the hair from his forehead. 

"Why'm I slurring. 'm sober, Mummy."

"I know you are, lovey," Mummy said. "You've been… you've been injured. Rather badly, actually. Watson and I have been having very interesting discussions about that."

"John?"

"Yes, John. Do try to keep up."

"I _am_ keeping up," Sherlock insisted, blinking owlishly at her. She'd been shopping for makeup again, he decided. The eyeliner was doing wonders for her, but she was starting to slip into that lady of mature years mistake – too much pink with the lipstick. "Lipstick's too pink," he said. "Makes you look… old."

Mummy just smiled at him. 

"No real trauma," she noted. "You'll be fine when the anesthetic wears off. They had to put you under to do the extraction. Normally they would have used a local anesthetic, Watson tells me. But you were a little too…" she pursed her lips. "Forceful with the paramedic."

"'m fine. I didn't need to be put out. Lemme get up so I can go home."

"You're staying put, lovey, for the time being."

"Am not. I have _things_ to do. Important things."

"Like getting a priceless antique shoved up your arse?" a new voice asked.

"MYCROFT!" Mummy thundered. Sherlock winced and tried to hide it.

"Well he _did_ ," Mycroft said. 

Sherlock turned back to stare at the little man in the bed with the up and down arrows. That would explain the numbness in his gluteus maximus and minimus. And the fact that his feet were tingling. 

"I'm _fine_ then," Sherlock said again. "Case! There was a case!"

"Not anymore, lovey. Your brother took care of it for you."

"Ugh. _Mycroft_."

"Yes, Sherlock? Still here. Still… observing."

"Yes, well, you're rather good at that, aren't you?" Sherlock mumbled back, glaring at the little man on his bedrail. "Sitting on _your_ fat arse, doing nothing but observing."

"Sherlock…"

"It's fine, Mummy. Sherlock's entitled to feel a bit… petulant. I would too, under the circumstances he's… facing."

"Prat."

"Sherlock, lovey, you must rest. Mycroft, do not make me warn you."

There was a heavily martyred sigh from behind Sherlock and he smirked into his pillow. The door clicked shut behind Mycroft and even _that_ was a pained sound. 

"Well, if that's all for the family niceties," Sherlock said. "I should be going." He tried to lever himself up, but discovered that his lower torso was, at the moment, not functioning.

"You're not going anywhere," Mummy countered. "I've had, as I noted earlier, a very frank conversation with Watson, and your doctors, and you, my lad, are going to stay right where you are for _at least_ another twenty four hours."

" _Mummy_ ," Sherlock protested. 

"Don't you 'Mummy' me! Now, take a drink. It's just water." A straw was poked into his mouth.

"Ah, hello? Oh, good, he's awake." The door creaked open again and relief flooded through Sherlock. John. John would make this nonsense stop and bring him home. John understood. Sherlock needed his space. His experiments. His laptop. God. His website must be completely out of control. The cases he was missing! What was Lestrade doing without him? Probably shagging Molly. She'd been ridiculously happy last week, and had even managed to put on a few pounds in the _right_ places. Plus her lipstick was the right color, for once.

"Watson. Come in."

Sherlock felt, rather than saw, John stiffen to attention. The past history between Mummy and John had, in the past, led to a great deal of awkwardness, especially at family occasions. Ridiculous, really. It wasn't as if Sherlock had _known_ John had been a Double-Oh. And even if he had…

"How are you, ma'am?"

"I've told you before, Watson. Mrs Holmes is fine under these circumstances."

"Yes, ma'am. I see Sherlock's awake?"

"Well spotted," Sherlock muttered from his sheet.

"Yes, well. Erm… good. I've just… Molly and Greg sent flowers. They're… really, erm… sorry for your injuries. And Greg swears he'll delete the photos."

There was a soft thud as John put the flowers down.

"They're lovely, Sherlock," Mummy announced. "Gerbera daisies."

"Mpfh," grumbled Sherlock into the sheet.

"You'll be fine for a moment, lovey?" Mummy asked.

"Mpfh."

"Good lad, I need to have a few words with Watson."

Sherlock lifted his head a few inches. 

"You wouldn't!" he exclaimed in horror.

"I can and I will," Mummy said. "As your mother, Sherlock, I am more than entitled to have a civil conversation with my putative son-in-law regarding your well being."

"Don't you dare lay a finger on John!" Sherlock warmed. 

"Lovey, whatever gave you that idea?" Mummy asked, rising from her seat beside the bed. "Watson and I are going to have a cozy, private chat. Watson. With me."

She swept from the room and Sherlock heard John turn and march out behind her. 

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted. "Mummy! Bring him back! Mummmmyyyy!"

The door creaked open again. 

"Mummy?" Sherlock tried to roll over.

"Ah, good you _are_ awake then, Mr Holmes," intoned a nurse stridently. "It's just time for your sponge bath."

Sherlock whimpered and pressed his head back into the sheet. The nurse (forty-seven, three cats, a daughter in Daventry, no grandchildren, flat feet, had pickled onions with her lunch) stripped him and began to work. 

"There now," Mummy said, coming back into the room. Sherlock strained to hear if John was behind her. Relief surged when he cleared his throat. "That's better. We're all here, lovey, and Watson and I had a nice little chat in the corridor, didn't we?"

"Yes," John replied woodenly. "Yes we did."

"You are, I suppose, Watson's most important assignment. And I do like to make sure my lovey duck is taken care of," Mummy went on mercilessly. 

Sherlock flinched – the water was cold. There really was, he reflected, no justice in this world. Being bathed by a nurse better suited to leading Girl Guides and barking orders and being coddled by his mother at the same time while John sulked… He had an image, damn it all, and how was he supposed to be a high functioning sociopath with all these… _loved ones_ clustering around him all the time?

Sherlock sighed. It was so bloody _unfair_.


End file.
